


cookie monster

by nightlighttuesdays



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baking, Birthday Party, Canon Compliant, Cookies, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grinding, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5181125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightlighttuesdays/pseuds/nightlighttuesdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or the one where Stiles and Derek bake a lot of cookies together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cookie monster

Stiles has literally just climbed into bed and turned off his light when he hears an epic crash from downstairs, chased by the unmistakable sound of someone cursing a blue streak.

His dad isn't due home until the afternoon, away at what Stiles affectionately refers to as Cop Con, getting debriefed and debunked and whatnot and Stiles is glad the sheriff is somewhere safe right now, but that also leaves him home alone with an intruder and no super werewolf powers or, you know, guns. In lieu of an actual weapon, he hefts his trusty baseball bat against his shoulder, glad he’d taken a note out of the McCall’s book.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles chants under his breath the whole way down the stairs. The kitchen is silent. "If I survived the fucking werewolf apocalypse and get killed by a cat burglar, I'm lodging a formal complaint with the universe."

His heart is pounding out of his chest as he edges his way into the kitchen, wielding the bat as a sword. "I'm armed and my best friend can rip your head off with his bare hands, so don't do anything rash here, buddy."

He can see a man's figure, outlined by the pale light of the crescent moon. The shoulders are broad, the posture a mixture of Mr. Darcy and The Rock, which is something Stiles never thought he'd be able to say about anyone other than Derek, but if the shoe fits, it's - wait. No fucking way.

He flicks on the light to reveal an almost guilty-looking Derek with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

"Seriously?"

"Um."

There's a baking sheet sitting on the counter behind him, a bag of flour in his hands and the preheat light lit up on the oven. Stiles is torn between committing murder and proposing marriage.

"Did you _break into my house_ to bake _cookies_?"

Derek clutches the flour tighter, like he thinks Stiles is going to make a move for it. "I didn't have ingredients," he says.

"But, like, three in the morning? An appropriate time?"

"You weren't supposed to wake up."

"But I did, and now I'm here, so." Stiles sidles up beside Derek to peer at the recipe card. No way he's going back to sleep when he's got this pisspot alone in his kitchen. With, like, knives and shit. "What're we making?" Stiles can feel Derek's laser glare burning into the side of his face, but he swallows hard and holds his ground. "Chocolate chip. Ye olde classic, right?" Silence. "What's the occasion, sourwolf?"

Derek sighs. "It's Isaac's birthday tomorrow."

"You - you're making..." Derek won't meet his eyes. "Oh my god, you're serious, that's adorable!"

"Just go back to sleep, Stiles," he says, weary. "I'll clean up."

"No way am I gonna miss out on Baking Bad. Let's do this shit."

"Stiles-"

"My shit, my oven, my rules, bucko."

Derek sighs again but lets Stiles pick up the recipe and bustle around the kitchen, dumping the ingredients onto the counter. He hasn't made chocolate chip cookies in ages, but he remembers what Christmases with his mom used to smell like and figures it can't be too hard.

EDIT: It’s a little hard.

"Stiles, you idiot, you forgot the flour."

"Well, maybe if you weren't clinging to it like it's your home ec baby, I wouldn't - DON'T DUMP IT ALL-"

"Oh. Shit."

Stiles sneezes about four times before he's able to fully appreciate the layer of flour coating the entire upper half of his body. At least Derek's black shirt isn't looking much better, streaked with white and one or two smudged handprints where Stiles unsuccessfully attempted to bodily shove him out of the way. The little shit's face, though, is completely gluten-free, and he's fighting what looks like the beginning of an actual real-life grin.

"You're a menace," Stiles says, wiping flour out of his eyes. "You totally did that on purpose."

"At least I didn't completely forget to put it in, smartass. Can we just get them in the oven so I can go?"

Stiles narrows his eyes. "I'm not forcing you to break into my house to bake cookies, man. You can leave any time you want."

"But I need the cookies," Derek says, and it comes out sounding like a whine more than anything else. Stiles snorts, but turns to start balling dough onto the cookie sheet.

"My name's Derek Hale, and I'm a five year old in a grumpy, hairy, angsty werewolf body," he mutters, adopting the appropriate neener-neener tone to go with it.

"You know I can hear you, right?"

"Wait, really? Oh my god, I had no clue."

Derek huffs but starts scooping dough all the same.

"This is actually a really nice thing you're doing," Stiles says, studying the side of Derek's face. "I mean, if you ignore the breaking and entering, but still."

Derek grunts.

"You gonna do something for Scott?"

Derek's eyes flick up. "Is his birthday soon?"

"Yeah, in a few weeks." Stiles pauses while Derek slides the tray into the oven. "You can come over again," he says casually.

The truth of the matter is that he's kind of lonely most of the time, and even though Derek tells Stiles to shut up a lot, he still hangs around and climbs into his window and _listens_ , which isn't something he can always say about Scott nowadays. Mostly, Derek is always _there_ , reliably available, which is probably a bad standard for friendship, but werewolves are real and there's also cookies and Stiles doesn't think he's ever had the right priorities, to be honest.

"We'll see," Derek says, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, but can we see before 3 o'clock in the morning next time?"

Derek ducks his head to hide a half-smile. "We'll see," he repeats.

The cookies take 14 minutes to bake, and by this point Stiles is no longer in the mood to fight the urge to adopt the fetal position on the floor and pass out. So, well, he doesn't.

He wakes up in his bed, his alarm blaring and ten minutes to get ready for school. It isn't until he's en route to the building that he remembers Derek and the late night cookies, and he makes it all the way to third period before he finds the little plastic bag of cookies tucked into the front pocket of his backpack.

He smiles a lot that day.

When they all round up for Isaac's pack party, Derek almost smiles at the feeding frenzy going on near the cookie tray.

"These are _amazing_ ," Erica moans, and Scott's got what looks like four in his mouth at the same time. Isaac is practically glowing in the center of the room, his grin wider than Stiles has ever seen it. It's still a new thing for Isaac, Stiles realizes - having people care enough to remember your birthday. Derek's watching Isaac too, his eyes soft and damn if Stiles isn't going to find out when his birthday is and bake him the fucking Taj Mahal of cookies. Derek's had a pretty shit life. He deserves birthday cookies.

....

The next time it happens immediately after school the day before Scott's birthday. It's so well-timed, in fact, that Stiles thinks Derek was waiting for him to get home. Strange.

"I found a new recipe," Derek says as soon as he's through the front door. He doesn't actually wait for Stiles to let him in, just barrels on through, but Stiles figures it's progress enough that Derek's even using the door. It doesn't keep him from winging his sandwich across the room in surprise, though. Derek ends up frozen in place with mustard on his shirt and ham drooping over his left eye.

"Oh, shit." Stiles is mortified, hands-over-the-mouth mortified, until it becomes apparent that Derek isn't about to murder him violently; at that point, he laughs his ass off for about two minutes straight. He doesn't stop until Derek starts stripping, _in his kitchen_ , and, like, objectively, holy six pack. He's seen Derek with his shirt off before, but usually it implies blood and potential death and this is only mustard.

"Stiles. Shirt."

Sometimes he doesn't notice when he's gaping."Last time, nothing fit you."

Derek grits his teeth. "I'm not wearing mustard for the rest for the night."

Stiles shrugs, and he only feels half bad. "I mean, there's always the apron."

If Derek carries out on the murder threat apparent in his scowl, Stiles will absolutely be in hell by the end of the hour.

"It's pink?" Stiles tries.

" _Stiles_."

“ _Derek_.”

“Just give me one of your dad’s-”

“He’ll know.”

“What do you mean he’ll-”

“It’s the pink apron or nothing, bro.”

Stiles absolutely is not getting a kick out of this. No way.

“ _I’m not your bro,_ ” Derek hisses.

He wears the apron.

And when the sheriff walks in thirty minutes later to the sight of Derek Hale standing in his kitchen, wrapped in a pink apron and eating cookie dough with Stiles, well, he turns around and walks right back out. He could use some overtime pay. And a drink.

“It tastes like shit,” Stiles says, “so I have hope for it.”

Derek arches an eyebrow, not bothered enough to actually verbalize his question.

“Sometimes before you bake it, it tastes awful and you’re wondering how the fuck it’s gonna come out edible, but those are usually the cookies that taste the best.” Stiles blinks. “Did that sound deep? I feel like that sounded deep. It’s probably like, a metaphor. Like how you were a vicious asshole at first but now you’re a sweet asshole who bakes cookies and doesn’t murder people.”

“I might murder you,” Derek mutters, but there’s a faint blush rising in his cheeks and Stiles feels strangely vindicated.

When Derek slides the first tray of cookies into the oven, they stand there for a long moment, looking anywhere but at each other.

“We should probably clean the...” Derek gestures to the pile of bowls teetering in the sink.

“Yeah.”

Stiles washes and Derek dries, but Stiles regrets this arrangement almost immediately because Derek wields his towel without mercy. The cracking sound it makes as it whips against Stiles’ ass literally sends him a foot into the air and he’s left massaging his buttcheek as he comes down.

“ _Dude_!”

But Derek’s back to drying the measuring cups, a calculating smile on his face. “Don’t call me dude.”

“What, are you gonna whip me until I stop calling you that?” Stiles says, turning back to the sink.

“Actually…”

“Fuck, wait, _no_ , I’m not into - OW - Derek, you fucking - _I’m not that kinky, you bastard_ , I’m gonna - jesus FUCK!”

He ends up hiding behind the sofa, eyes on Derek’s slow advance.

“Dude, I swear to god, I’m gonna call Scott and tell him you burnt his cookies.”

“Oh, shit.” Derek makes a beeline for the oven, pulling out a slightly browned tray with his bare hands.

"Are they okay?" Stiles asks, keeping to the far side of the couch.

"Just a little crispy," Derek says, one already in his mouth.

Stiles edges his way forward slowly, until Derek rolls his eyes and throws the towel on the counter.

"They should cool," Stiles says, shuffling them around so they don't stick. "Personally, I don't like having my taste buds burnt off, but you do you."

They're on the couch watching Bones reruns when the second sheet comes out, and by the third, Stiles is pretending to do homework while Derek looms from beside him. The TV’s still on in the background when Derek returns, the oven off and cookies all cooling on a tray.

“I think balancing equations is the new bane of my existence,” Stiles says around the pencil he's chewing on. “This is gross.”

“Do you need help?” Derek asks, his voice much closer than Stiles expected. Stiles starts.

“Can you, like, _make noise_ when you exist?”

Derek rolls his eyes and sits down, tugging the notebook out of Stiles’ hands and into his own lap.

“I remember this,” he says slowly. “Pencil.”

“Yes, doctor.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Do you-”

“Yes, I do want your help,” Stiles says hurriedly, placing the pencil in Derek’s waiting hand; and help Derek does. Within thirty minutes, Stiles is balancing Ca5F(PO4)3 + H2SO4 -> Ca(H2PO4)2 + CaSO4 + HF with his eyes closed.

“Dang,” Stiles says, eyeing Derek. “I thought you were a jock in high school.”

Derek shifts in his chair. “After Paige, I just kind of…”

“Oh.” Stiles is uncharacteristically silent for a moment. “Thank you, man.”

Derek’s nod is short. He stands, presumably to escape, but Stiles is feeling kind of cozy there on the couch, homework thrown to the side and the smell of warm cookies in every breath.

“Can you hang out?”

Derek pauses. “Right now?”

Stiles shrugs, his usual full body movement. “Why not?” He’s pretending to be cool, he is, but there’s a horrible idea that’s starting to push its way to the surface of his consciousness.

“I should go,” Derek says, already backing towards the door with a strange look in his eyes, like he doesn’t know what to do with a Stiles who isn’t constantly trying to get rid of him.

“You sure?” Stiles tries one last time, draping himself over the back of the couch.

Derek makes an odd, strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I’m - I’ll - bye.” The door slams behind him.

Stiles slides back down onto the couch, covering his eyes as he goes. “Shit,” he whispers. “ _Shit._ ”

Stiles has had a thing for Lydia ever since it was a thing to have things. She’s been _it_ for him, the red hair always at the edge of his dreams, the perfect grades always a point ahead of him. It’s always been Lydia. But maybe when Derek had his moment as Miguel, there was a part of Stiles that considered how much shit he’d get at school for jumping his “cousin’s” bones in front of Danny. And he’s not totally sure what treading water in the pool with Derek’s life in his hands did to him, but he doesn’t think he likes it.

It’s awful, he thinks, hands pressed over his eyes. He’s been sitting upon this half-feeling for a while now, but these cookies...oh, fuck, these cookies are destroying him. Every time he meets Stiles’ eyes over a tray, every time he pops a ball of dough in his mouth and holds one out to share with Stiles, every cookie they bake for sad and repressed teenagers; Stiles groans. Derek’s so far out of his league that it _hurts._

He’s not about to do anything about it. He pined after Lydia for _years_ ; he can pine after Derek for a few months, at least until he goes to college and finds someone whose ideal is a skinny motormouth with werewolf friends.

_Shit._

…..

“Did you make all these yourself?” Lydia asks, watching Stiles plate the cookies before everyone else shows up. He’s got an entire table full, and even that will probably only last ten minutes.

“Derek came over,” he says finally, and in that moment, he knows his fate is sealed. She gets a horrifically calculating gleam in her eye. He braces himself against the table.

“Derek?” She says, arching an eyebrow and pursing her lips. “Tall, brooding, werewolf Derek? To bake _cookies_?”

Stiles sighs.

“Oh my god.”

“Nothing happened, we just-”

“You totally have a thing for Derek Hale.”

“That’s not-”

“And he has a thing for _you_ , clearly.”

“He - what?”

“Stiles, honey,” Lydia lays her hands on Stiles’ shoulders. “The boy has a working oven.”

“He didn’t have ingredients,” Stiles mutters.

“He drives a Camaro. I think he can afford some flour and eggs.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t want this - there’s enough supernatural shit to worry about without feelings, too. “Maybe he’s lonely. I don’t know, Lyds, he only comes over to bake and then he’s gone.”

She frowns. “It’s been a while since he’s done this,” she says slowly. “And he hasn’t exactly had the best track record when it comes to relationships.”

“Oh, like the murdering arsonist and the serial killer druid?”

Lydia narrows her eyes. “Exactly.”

“So what are you suggesting I do here?” Stiles toys with a plate on the edge of the table. “Seduce him with cookies?”

She considers it. “Not a bad idea.”

“Are you - _no,_ I’m not going to-”

“I’m not talking about rolling around naked in cookie dough, Stiles, I mean-”

“Whoa, whoa, who’s rolling around naked in cookie dough?”

Their heads whip to the front door, where Isaac is barreling his way through Scott and Allison.

“What kind of party is this?” Scott asks, a smile growing when he sees the cookies.

“Not the sex kind,” Erica says, coming in with Boyd. “Stiles has to stay a virgin so we always have a backup sacrifice.”

“Too soon,” Stiles says, levelling a cookie at Erica before biting into it.

Derek swoops in a few minutes later, as Scott’s trying to stuff five cookies in his mouth at once and Boyd is arguing with Erica over which Toy Story movie is better. He hovers in the corner for a while, and Stiles can see his eyes lighting up every time Scott beams and Allison laughs. It’s sweet. Stiles is staring. And possibly drooling. Derek meets Stiles’ eyes as he’s swiping a hand across his mouth. Stiles tries to turn the movement into a wave but ends up smacking himself in the face.

Derek _laughs._

Stiles flips him off.

It's an easier conversation that happens when Derek approaches and asks why Stiles wanted to have the party here, rather than in the boxcar.

Stiles just raises an eyebrow. “A house with, like, actual running water versus a shitty old boxcar that Berica and Cora half-ripped to shreds?”

“Berica?”

“Their ship name,” Stiles says, waving it aside. “But especially since Scott basically lives here anyway.”

Derek nods like he understands. “I think they like it,” he says, and then the pair of them stand there silently watching pack interactions for a good two minutes.

“I think they're always gonna like it,” Stiles says quietly. “They're all kind of fucked up in their own special ways, but they like knowing that they're worth a few hours of baking cookies.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “It's a nice feeling.”

Stiles turns to look at Derek, only to find him already staring at the side of his face.

“What?”

Derek shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“No, no, no, bastard, you don't get to ‘nothing’ me.”

"Erica's birthday is in a month," Derek says, changing the subject abruptly. Stiles glares at him, but he doesn't seem to notice. "I was thinking about doing a more complicated recipe."  
  
"I'm down."  
  
"We should probably test the recipe out first," he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah. It looked pretty involved.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, a grin starting to grow. “I think we’re gonna need more flour.”

“I can pick some up tomorrow,” Derek says.

Stiles nods slowly. “Or I can come too,” he says, immediately steeling himself for the inevitable brush-off. _I don’t need help shopping for groceries,_ probably.

But instead, Derek shrugs. “If you want to.”

“Really?” Stiles winces at how excited he sounds. “I mean, cool. Cool.”

Derek looks like he’s hiding a smile. “I’ll pick you up after school.”

“I’ll be there.” Stiles says, making the most awkward finger guns of his entire life. At that point, he decides to cut his losses and walk away, over to where Scott’s choking on his five cookies.

Derek laughs again behind him.

Stiles decides not to overthink it until everyone leaves and he’s lying alone in his bed again that night; that’s how he solves all his problems.

…..

Over the next few months, Stiles does a series of increasingly suspicious things. He smuggles Derek into his room in the middle of the night to scour the interwebs for recipes (Pinterest. Pinterest is a godsend, even though Derek’s too ashamed to admit it). He bakes more cookies than any self-respecting grandmother would dream of, and he hands the testers out to kids on the neighborhood playground before he realizes exactly what that looks like. His pinnacle of shadiness, though, comes when he breaks into his dad’s files at the station to find the date of Derek’s birth. He probably could have asked or something, but that would have ruined the surprise and Stiles is nothing if not thorough; so the only option really was to commit a felony.

Derek’s birthday is tomorrow. Stiles has had a while to plan now, and he thinks he's ready. He just has to pull it off.

He bakes into the wee hours of the morning - 8 flavors, ranging from the first chocolate chip recipe they made to that paleo mess they made that Derek was still pretending he didn't eat the whole first batch. He texts everyone - reminds them to be on time - and then promptly falls asleep on the couch, a smudge of cookie dough streaked as long his cheekbone that he'll find later, when he wakes up and it's crusted into his skin.

Worth it, he thinks in the morning. Derek is worth it.

While Stiles is driving to school, blearily trying to keep the car on the road, Scott is fidgeting in the passenger seat, turning to Stiles every few seconds like he’s talking himself up and down to say something.

Stiles finally takes pity on him. “What is it, Scott?”

“You and Derek,” bursts out of him. “I’ve been trying not to be weird about it, cause you’re my best friend, dude, I don’t care who you get with, but it’s been months and I just gotta know.”

“Me and Derek.”

“It smells like he’s over at your house more than I am, and he’s been so much less, like, dickish lately, ever since you guys started doing whatever you’ve been doing. And the whole birthday thing - like, no offense, man, but the amount of cookies you just baked is fucking ridiculous. So, like, are you guys...together?”

Stiles snorts, but it can’t hide the blush spreading across his face. “No way, bro. Could you imagine Derek ever wanting to date me? He’s like, all scruffy and werewolf-y and hot and I’m just like...I’m just a Stiles, man.”

Scott blinks, surprised. “He talks about you when you’re not there,” he says finally. “Like, some nights when you have homework or we’re just running, he’ll ask me how you’re doing. Sometimes he tells Cora stories of you, from before she came back.”

“Really?” Stiles doesn’t want to get his hopes up; he doesn’t. “He probably does that with everyone, though. I bet she knows all about that time you almost ate the lacrosse team.”

“I didn’t - bro, I’m serious. I think he’s really into you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Scott, I don’t think you understand how things work. You and Allison - you’re both attractive. Me and Derek? Man, he could get anyone in the continental United States and you’re trying to tell me he’s into me?” Stiles pulls into his normal parking space a little more aggressively than he normally would.

Scott huffs and opens the door. “You’re not ugly, Stiles. And you’re smart, and I’m pretty sure without you we’d all have been dead years ago. He wouldn’t be making a mistake.”

“That’s a lie, but I like the way it made me feel, so I’ll let it go.”

“Wait - what have you been doing at your house then, if you haven’t been, like, getting it on?”

“We’ve been baking cookies.”

“Ohhhh my _god_ ,” Scott moans, shouting to the entire parking lot. “He’s in love with you. You’re in love with him. How did it take me this long to realize?”

Stiles refrains from punching his best friend in the face. Barely.

The day crawls by. The longer Stiles is there, the more he wants to escape; and by the time the last bell rings, he’s practically dragging Scott out to Roscoe.

“We have to set everything up,” he says as he speeds home. “And hope he doesn’t ruin the surprise.”

Scott, for his part, doesn’t comment, just nods and sends out what’s probably the 18th text reminder to be at Stiles’ house in 30 minutes. Stiles has trained him well.

Stiles texts Derek when he gets home, a short decoy message of “cookies @ 4:30?”. Derek responds nearly immediately with “be there soon.”

Stiles scrambles.

Somehow, everyone’s there on time, diving behind doors and furniture as soon as they hear his car pull up out front.

“Stiles?” Derek opens the front door, looking around.

On cue, everyone leaps out from their hiding places. “Happy birthday!”

(Erica might have screamed “fuck you, bitchtits,” but no one can confirm nor deny).

In hindsight, Stiles probably should have thought through his plan to scare a werewolf. Derek’s initial reaction is to grab Jackson - the nearest person - by the throat and slam him down into the floor. Jackson groans and shifts away as soon as Derek’s hand releases him.

“Dude,” Jackson coughs. “Not cool.”

“Sorry,” Derek says absentmindedly, standing up and brushing off his hands on his jeans. His eyes are darting around, taking in all the extended pack standing around, laughing.

“Happy birthday, Derek,” Stiles says. “I know pulling the kung fu on Jackson is probably the best present you could ask for-” (“I _will_ bite you, Stilinski”), “but we have some more stuff, too.”

A slightly dazed Derek follows Stiles to where the table is laid out with cookies. “This is for me?”

Stiles laughs. “Of course, dude. Who else has a birthday today?”

“How did you _know_?”

Stiles deflects from his felony by shoving a cookie into Derek’s mouth. “You liked these, right?”

“Mmmflurfgh.” Derek sprays crumbs all over Stiles’ face. Everyone else is starting to dive into the food, but Stiles is kind of fixated on a piece of the cookie stuck on Derek’s cheek. Almost against his will, his hand lifts up and brushes it away and now Derek’s brows are knitting themselves together.

Instead of using his words, he herds Stiles into the pantry and closes the door behind them. “You did this all for me?”

Everything’s dark, and Stiles feels vaguely like he’s about to get murdered or something equally tragic.

“Yeah? I thought, it was your birthday, and I wanted to-”

It takes him a really pathetically long time to realize that sudden taste on his lips is _Derek_ , but once he does, he’s very enthusiastic about the whole thing. He knocks what feels like a can of tuna off the shelf trying to hook his arms around the back of Derek’s neck.

Too soon, though, Derek is pulling away, pushing Stiles back. The only sound in the pantry is their breathing.

“Is this something - am I something you want?” Stiles asks, the darkness making him brave.

“I think that’s a safe bet,” Derek says, a soft, shaky laugh escaping him. “I didn’t mean to - I just…”

“Couldn’t keep your hands off me,” Stiles said, jokingly.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees.

“Dude, for real? What about _this_ ,” he realizes he’s gesturing to himself in the blackness only after he’s done it,” what about this gets you going?”

“I don’t know many people who would go to all this trouble to plan a birthday party for me,” Derek says. “Even Cora doesn’t care that much. And all the cookies we made - it’s just _you_ , Stiles.”

“So you kissed me for my baking skills,” Stiles says drily.

He’s positive Derek’s glaring at him - he can see the faint beginnings of a blue glow starting up around face level.

“I kissed you because you’re you,” he says finally. “Snarky little asshole most of the time, but that’s okay with me.”

Stiles has this idea in his head of a smooth, passionate kiss now, replete with moans and a little petting, but while he’s on his way to Derek, he accidentally smacks him in the face.

“Jesus shit, Stiles, what the _fuck_?”

“I don’t have night-vision,” Stiles hisses. “Get over here and kiss me again.”

Stiles _likes_ kissing Derek. Even though he doesn’t have much in the way of comparisons, he knows Derek’s good, and this second touch only backs it up. While Derek’s blowing his mind in the way of quality kisses, his hand wraps around the back of Stiles’ thigh, drawing it up around Derek’s waist and - oh. Oh _god_. That’s definitely Derek’s dick.

“ _Oh god_ ,” Stiles breathes as Derek breaks away to mouth along his neck. “Holy shit.”

A sudden pounding on the door freezes them both in place.

“We all love you, we really do,” Isaac says, “but we’re leaving because Jackson’s about to go into the fetal position and Erica keeps narrating what she thinks is going on in there. So, uh, have fun.”

Erica, from farther away: “We’re taking the cookies!”

The front door slams a moment later, and Stiles falls apart in a fit of laughter against Derek. “Oh shit, man, I totally forgot about them.”

“They heard everything,” Derek says, sounding pained. “I’m going to get shit for the rest of my life.”

Stiles only laughs harder.

“I need to get out of this fucking closet,” Derek mutters, throwing the door open and stalking out.

“Wait, where are you going?” Stiles stumbles out after him, shielding his eyes against the light. He grins when he realizes where Derek’s headed.

His room’s actually almost clean, but Derek’s in his bed and Stiles thinks that’s the true success here. He falls on top of Derek, slotting into the space between his legs, and they lie there for a long time, lazily making out and feeling parts of each other they’d never touched before. And if at some point somebody grinds a little too hard, and somebody groans a little too low, and they come a little too soon; well, it’s okay.

**  
** There’s always more cookies to make.

**Author's Note:**

> first sterek fic aaaaah! i just wanted to finish and post this so enjoy (:
> 
> also i hella ignored actual birthdays as set by the show bc i was very lazy. 
> 
> stay classy, san diego


End file.
